THE NEW YORKER, AUGUST 4, 2014
61
as I peered down, my face must have
been hard to make out, because she
looked uncertain, even a bit worried.
She lifted the iron, holding it like a
weapon.
Instead of saying my name, I said,
"Eddie's friend."
Still holding the iron, she angled
her body a bit to see me sideways, away
from the light, and then said, "You!
Come on in!," and laughed in a gasping
sort of way, as if in relief.
I walked down the short flight of
stairs to the basement room and sat in
one of the upholstered chairs, exactly
where I had sat six months ago, when I'd
come with Eddie.
"I hope it's O.K. to stop by," I said.
"It's nice to see you," she said, and
returned to her ironing---and I could
tell from the smoothness of her move-
ments that she meant what she said.
She pushed the iron without e ort
across the red cloth, then with her free
hand she deftly folded the cloth in half
and ironed the fold, giving it a crease.
"I just happened to be in the neigh-
borhood," I said. This explanation gave
me pleasure, because it wasn't quite true,
yet sounded plausible, even suave.
But I suspected that she didn't be-
lieve me. She was literal-minded and
truthful, in the way of someone with
no small talk. She said, "There's not
much going on in this part of the
world."
"I was headed to North Station."
Paige smiled, clapping her iron down.
"How about a drink?"
"I'm all set."
"There's some lemonade in the
fridge---help yourself," she said, tossing
her head, loosening her hair.
Eddie would have known how to
find the lemonade and a glass and pour
himself a drink, but it was beyond me. It
occurred to me that I was out of my
depth. I knew that, had Paige not been
ironing in the open doorway, I would
not have approached her. Without a
word, she went to the refrigerator and
poured me a glass of lemonade.
To fill the silence, I said, "I haven't
seen Eddie lately."
She bowed her head and went on
ironing.
"He changed schools. I guess he
wasn't too happy in Maine."
She still said nothing.
"I'd like to go there sometime."
She nodded.
"Like Eddie says, cold in the winter,
and the summer's only a few days in July."
She worked the red cloth into a
tighter square and pressed it with the
heel of her hand before applying the
iron again.
"And I don't belong there. My mother
once said, 'Just because a cat has kittens
inside an oven doesn't make them bis-
cuits.' " She didn't react. I now felt sure
that I'd raised the wrong subject. I said,
"But my mother's dead."
This roused her. She looked pained.
She said, "I'm really sorry. Please have
some more lemonade?"
I showed her that my glass was half
full. I said, "How's the dancing?"
"It's O.K.," she said, and, echoing the
tone I'd used, "The dancing."
"Whereabouts do you do it?"
"You know the High Bar?"
"Not sure."
"You've got to be twenty-one," she
said, frowning. "It's kind of a rough
place."
"I'd like to see you there."
"No, you wouldn't," she said. "You're
better o somewhere else. Like getting
a good education."
That was friendly. It encouraged me,
because I felt that she was becoming fa-
miliar with me, and something more
might happen, and it excited me, because
I didn't know what.
She was a steady presence, standing
with her legs apart in her loose shorts,
one hand smoothing and folding the red
cloth, which grew smaller with each fold,
the heavy iron in her other hand. Wisps
of hair framed her damp face. I was not
used to seeing a woman dressed like this,
almost undressed, in her own house, and
that excited me, too.
"So where did you learn to dance?"
I asked.
She smiled again, shook her head. "It's
pretty easy," she said. "The guys don't
come there for the dancing." As we
talked, my eyes were drawn to her bed,
which was neatly made, with plump pil-
lows and a Teddy bear propped up
against them, and on the side table a
book. I could easily read the gold letter-
ing on the spine, because it was a title I
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